| In the village of St. Saturnin les
Apts, in the Vaucluse region of Provence. We’re on an embankment, just below the town
swimming pool, watching a game of boules. Six people, 2 women and 4 men, of varying ages
from late 20’s to late 60’s, on the gravel municipale bouledrome. The object is
to throw your balls (you get two) closest to the small wooden one that is thrown out
first. The balls are hollow steel, about the size of croquet balls. Like croquet, knocking
another contestant’s ball out of the running is half the challenge. It is late afternoon, the light is low and slanting. "This is great
light. Why aren’t you photographing this?" Robin chides me, more than once. I
have no language, is why. I don’t have a clue what’s culturally appropriate, I
tell myself, and I’m afraid to approach the group. Being mute in a foreign culture
only encourages my already strong predilection to shyness. |
If I were on an assignment, I probably
could do this. But I keep telling myself the reasons why it would be an intrusion, and how
I don’t have a compelling reason. Despite the great light and the amazing cultural
tableaux before me, the hurdle seems too high to surmount. However, I am blessed (usually)
with having a pushy, outgoing partner who never passes up an opportunity for a new
relationship, especially if it will enhance foreign language vocabulary building. When we walk down the embankment and join the group, it is no different
then when I walked up to the Cork road bowlers in Ireland. Robin says that I want to
photograph the game. They’re glad to have me. I show them my booklet of Ireland
photographs. In French culture, artistes and journalistes are held in high regard.
"Monsiur Photographe," they call to me, to be sure I record an especially
difficult pitch. When Robin proffers my notebook and says I’ll send photos, I feel
embraced. "You and we, all champions," they say. |
